


dare me to do it

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10156070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: In which Jon Snow absolutely does not flirt with Sansa Stark, and he is offended that you would even suggest such a thing.





	

Jon wouldn’t say that he flirts with his best friend’s sister—“It’s called _being_ _polite_ ,” he’s pointed out to an obviously perturbed Robb on more than one occasion—but he also wouldn’t necessarily say that he _doesn’t_ , either; he just wouldn’t say that to Robb.  

But he absolutely doesn’t go to Robb’s soccer practices because that just happens to be when the cheerleaders practice, too. That’s a coincidence. Sam covers sports for the school paper so thoroughly that it’s practically inhuman, and Jon will tag along to keep him company, that’s all it is. He can’t help it if Sansa, you know, just happens to be there.

_Not to mention_ , it’s not his fault that the muscles in her upper arms strain when she piles her masses of crimson hair into a bun on top of her head. He’s not some sort of pervert, either, but the sparrow tattooed on her lower back is expertly shaded so if anyone asks, he’s only admiring its craftsmanship. And it’s hot out this early in the autumn so, yeah, Sansa’s gonna strip her shirt off and lead practice cheers in nothing but a bright yellow sports bra and black leggings that have _got_ to be tailor-made, he swears, because the way they fit the curve of her ass is just like… But he’s definitely, most decidedly _not_ looking at her ass, Jon reminds himself, so how would he even _know_?

And he doesn’t _bring Sansa water_ , either, no matter what Robb says to the contrary. He’s just really focused on the importance of proper hydration, so he happens to have a bottle on hand when the boys finish off the coolers and Sansa is left panting through cheer reps. He doesn’t blush when Sansa gratefully chugs from the bottle and tells him, “You’re a lifesaver.” He _doesn’t_. Jon doesn’t _blush_.

“I’d bring my own cooler if I didn’t think the lads would finish that one off, too,” Sansa tells him during one late afternoon practice. The sun is bleeding red against the horizon and is throwing shocks of extra color in her sweat-dampened hair. Jon realizes he might be gaping at the shadows playing on her skin—he’s _not_ , of course, but he might be—so he sets his jaw purposefully, but Sansa wipes spilled water from her chin and doesn’t seem to notice anything else.  

“Robb and Theon waste it, too,” she continues as she wipes damp palms against her thighs. “They just dump it over themselves like they’re in an ‘80s music video. Which might actually be my fault, by the way, because I said that to Theon last week and he took it far too personally.”

“That’s Theon for you, isn’t it?” Jon says with an entirely not-nervous-at-all laugh. “Always the drama queen.”

Sansa presses her lips together in an ill-disguised grin. “I said that to him, too.”

Jon imagines that his laugh is more genuine this time. Sansa watches him while she wipes her neck and chest down with a towel, and she’s on her arms when she asks, purely conversational, “What are you always doing here, anyway? It can’t be fun to watch us all sweat our arses off for two hours.”

“Ah, you know, Sam doesn’t like to go off on his own.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, but his words are honest enough. Sam really _doesn’t_ like to go off on his own, even though he’s usually all right once he’s there; but Jon would accompany him even if it weren’t for… well, other participating circumstances, as it were. “Besides, I can give Robb and Theon a hard time about their lousy tactics later, too, and it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Sansa tilts her chin upwards while she re-ties her drooping bun. “Why don’t you join the team, hm? Teach them a thing or two out on the field.”

“Ah, well, it’s easier when I’m on the sidelines,” Jon admits. “Put me out there in the thick of it, I won’t know the difference between my own two feet.”

“Shame.” Sansa tilts her chin again, this time to the side, as though she’s inspecting him. And he’s not saying that her eyes travel down the length of his body or anything, but his have done it enough to her that he should know what it looks like by now, so _maybe_ … “I reckon you’d look pretty cute in the uniform.”

Jon’s not sure if he’s supposed to laugh again or maybe stare at her like he’s sure he’s doing or, hey, maybe she wants him to make out with her. But he doesn’t get a chance to decide between the three (and perhaps that’s for the best, just in case she _doesn’t_ want him to make out with her), because just then Robb shows up to whip Jon around the back of the knees with a damp towel. Jon stumbles a step forward from the surprise attack; he swears when he steps on Sansa’s toes and his hand goes to her bare waist to steady himself, and his heart may have just jumped up into his throat and he may have swallowed it back down so it settles somewhere in his stomach where he—although he’s not a _doctor_ or anything, mind—is pretty sure it probably doesn’t belong.

“Oi, watch the hands!” Robb warns. He snaps his towel at the spot where Jon’s holding Sansa’s deliciously sweat-slickened ribcage, but doesn’t manage to hit Jon as much as he hits his sister.

“ _Ouch_ , you idiot,” Sansa snaps, albeit good-naturedly. She aims a kick at her brother’s shin. “Watch where you’re swinging that thing, or the last thing you’ll have to worry about is who’s pawing at me.”

“I’m not pawing,” Jon protests, his scandalized expression only about half-feigned. He pulls his lingering hand away and takes a step back to prove it, although if anyone nearby happens to be telepathic then Jon’s sure he’s still in deep shit. “I’m just clumsy, apparently.”

Sansa winks at him. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, come on,” Robb snorts, disgusted. “I’m _right here_ , you know.”

“Trust me,” Sansa says with a roll of her eyes, “I am painfully aware of your proximity at the moment.”

Robb crosses his arms and tries to hide his smile by pursing his lips, and it doesn’t work at all the way he means it to. “Are you ready to go, or are you going to let Jon impregnate you first?”

“God, _Robbert_ …” Sansa sighs and twirls a loose strand of hair around her finger in a move that twirls something in Jon’s gut, too. “I’m telling mum you’re making pregnancy jokes about me.”

Robb’s only response is a crinkle of his nose, which Sansa mimics, and then he turns to Jon. “You want a ride?”

“No, thanks, though,” Jon says, perhaps more firmly than is normal because Sansa’s crinkled nose might be too adorable to do him any good and he needs to keep his head on straight. He jerks his thumb towards where Sam is gathering his notes by the bleachers. “I’ll hitch a ride with Sam, we’ve got to swing by Gilly’s pottery class, anyway. Sam wants to show me what she’s been working on.”

“Oh, tell her I say hi,” Sansa requests. “She made me this really gorgeous flower pot last week. I hadn’t known she was so talented, honestly, I might be in love with her now.”

“Hear that, Snow?” Robb jabs his friend in the side. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

“Oi,” Sansa interjects while Jon definitely does not blush again, “I’m strictly dickly, okay?”

Robb groans and looks like he’d appreciate nothing more than if the world opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him whole. “Last thing I need to hear from my kid sister.”

“Well, good,” Sansa huffs, and then mouths to Jon, “I’m not, anyway.”

“Oh, no?” he says, not knowing what else is supposed to come out of his mouth when she’s got that cheeky grin on her face. Robb’s already walked away, shaking his head at the pair of them, so Jon thinks he’s safe to maybe flirt with her a little bit. Not that he’s going to, but just in case.

Sansa scrunches her nose up again, this time in concentration. “Maybe like half dickly,” she allows, “but of course I have my personal preferences either way, you know?”

Jon can’t say that he does, considering his personal preference may or may not be but definitely is just exclusively Sansa Stark, cocksure head cheerleader and eternal holder of his heart, apparently.

Sansa grins when he twiddles his fingers against his pockets. Nervous gesture, she knows, and she’d like to tell him that he can twiddle his fingers on her whenever and wherever he likes, but Jon is shy and she doesn’t want to send him running just because she can’t keep it in her pants. She has much more self-control than that, thank you very much.

“Well, keep a secret, would you?” Sansa tells him, pulling her best conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell Robb if you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his whining—best-case scenario, by the way—but nobody can resist their brother’s brooding friend who’s too polite to talk to their chest for an entire conversation, and he absolutely only looks when he thinks she doesn’t notice. It’s so refreshing that it’s practically romance.”

Okay, so maybe she doesn’t have as much self-control as she’d like to boast, but the blush that creeps up Jon’s neck is so worth it. She doesn’t mind that his gaze drops down to her chest as soon as she mentions it, either; it’s sort of what she’d been going for.

“So I’m irresistible, am I?” Jon somehow finds the confidence to ask, or perhaps he’s just lost control of all his mental faculties. Most definitely the latter, but all the same he manages to cock an eyebrow and make it look like he’s got his shit together.

Sansa’s grin widens, and she bites her bottom lip to keep it from overtaking her face entirely. _Keep your cool, Stark._

“I’d advise you to keep that charm of yours in check,” she tells him, cool as you please. She swipes him playfully with her own towel before balling it up in her fist; best to keep it that way, lest she swing it around Jon’s neck to use it as leverage to pull that pouting mouth down to hers. “You wouldn’t want to give a girl the wrong idea just to have her brother pummel you for it later.”

Jon’s eyebrow stays up like it’s the only thing hitching his confidence high enough to say what he does, because fuck him if it’s not what Sansa wants to hear. His hands dip into his pockets and he leans forward a bit on his toes, nervous as ever but he likes to think he’s holding it together when one corner of his mouth twitches up and he says, “And what if it’s the right idea?”

“Well in _that_ case…” Sansa’s teeth come down on her lip again, in that way that Jon wouldn’t mind trying out himself—not that he’ll _do_ it, he’s just saying, maybe he’d like to sometime, if she’s amenable to it (which it sort of seems like she is, by the way).

All at once she’s got the hem of his shirt clutched in her fingers and she’s tugged him forward so that he almost steps on her toes again. For a split, heart-wrenching second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him, right there in the middle of the field for anybody to see if they had a mind to look, and honestly who _wouldn’t_ have a mind to have their eyes on Sansa all the time? Jon’s pretty sure his brain may have officially short-circuited over how often his gaze finds her and she sends him into a frenzy of _want need god she’s so fucking_ _pretty_ , but he’s got enough sense to keep his eye on something like her because you’ve got to keep an eye on Sansa if you want to make sure she’s real. And _god_ , but does he want her to be real.

But she doesn’t kiss him. She just holds onto the hem of his shirt and there’s stale coffee on her breath that flutters across his lips—stale coffee’s never tasted good, but Jon thinks he could come around to it—and says through that annoying, knee-weakening coy smile, “Guess I’ll see you at the game tomorrow night, then.”   

Her fingertips brush the skin just above the band of his jeans, and she releases him with another wink. And, okay, if he hasn’t short-circuited by now, that’s what cinches it for sure—her finely manicured nails on his skin and the way she looks at him like he’s a frozen lemonade she’s about to suck dry.

“See you, Jon.”

His mouth is bone-dry so he manages, but barely: “See you, Sansa.”

Okay, he admits silently to himself as he watches her walk away, so maybe he _does_ flirt with her a bit, after all. But to be fair, he’s pretty sure she flirted with him first.

* * *

The night air is thick with heat and saturated by the bright white lights of the soccer field. There’s a sort of technological but ethereal glow that surrounds the field, washing out the grass so it’s a bright garish green against the white-and-gray uniforms of the home team, their cheerleaders, and the banners and school merchandise flaunted by those that pack the home bleachers. Sam sports a Winterfell Wolves cap and Gilly a scarf, but Jon can’t bring himself to endorse school spirit more than allowing Sansa to paint her brother’s jersey number—21—on his face before kick-off. He’d feel bloody stupid about it if Sam and Gilly hadn’t joined him, and anyway Sansa had gone ahead and painted “21” on her face, too, so he feels a little less ridiculous about the whole thing.

It’s absolutely _not_ because he’ll just do whatever Sansa asks him to. Robb may think Jon’s knees go weak when Sansa folds her hands in front of him and begs him to indulge in a little pep, but Jon prefers to think that he’s just that sort of good, supportive friend, regardless of how punch-you-in-the-face pretty his friend’s sister is. That’s just… completely irrelevant. 

“Quit getting fresh with my sister,” Robb had mostly joked a few hours earlier. But Jon doesn’t “get fresh,” and he’s offended that Robb would even think to say such a thing.

Really, if Robb’s worried about anyone’s _freshness_ , it should be Sansa’s, but personally Jon enjoys it too much to point it out to anyone who might try to put a stop to it. And it’s not because Sansa’s confidence boosts Jon’s own, either; it’s not anything like that, it’s not his selfish want for her that’s influencing his decisions—because of course he doesn’t _want_ her, what with her jokes and her straight-backed arrogance and her hit-you-over-the-head-with-a-blunt-object legs and her whip-smart words and all that pretty hair he would never dream of running his fingers through and that great ass he certainly has never even _noticed_ …

Jon’s thoughts stutter to a halt and now he’s not sure what he was trying to convince himself of.

He leaves Sam and Gilly to themselves at halftime. The cheerleaders don’t bother with a halftime show, not when most of the spectators use the time to head to concessions or the restrooms, and it’s not like this is their homecoming game, anyway. All the better for Jon, who doesn’t _always_ look for an opportunity to talk to Sansa one-on-one, but he’s not going to turn his nose up at one, either.

Sansa stands on the other side of the chain-link fence that snakes between the bleachers and the field, her long ponytail set high and curled at the ends, the red of it glaring under the assault of the field lights. Jon certainly doesn’t imagine what it would be like to twist his fingers into the end while he kisses her neck. What would he want to kiss her neck for, anyway? Definitely not.

“Hey.” Jon leans against the fence and his eyes flick down Sansa’s bare legs. He doesn’t know who came up with the way cheerleader uniforms would skim just past decent, but whatever piece of the universe’s destiny puzzle put Sansa in that skirt must be playing some colossal joke at his expense. “You look good.”

A grin twists Sansa’s lips as she looks at him over her shoulder. “Are you high?”

He chuckles, and flicks his unlit cigarette upwards. “Nah, ‘s just nicotine.”

“Those are bad for you, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?” The cigarette bobs between his lips and his eyebrows go up as if he’s interested in what she’s just said. He cups a hand around the cig and lights it. “God, I’d better quit, then.”

Sansa hums thoughtfully and looks back across the florescent-washed field. “You might, if you want to make out with me.”

Jon pretends that his lungs don’t constrict at the thought and obviously, like any self-respecting young man, there’s not even a hint of the faintest discomfort in his pants as he watches Sansa toy with the edge of the skirt that’s surely _not_ going to haunt the restless nights he spends over her.

This is fine, he thinks while Sansa’s fingernails graze her thigh. _Fine_. He’s fine.

He takes one last puff of his cigarette and crushes the rest of it against his heel. “Well, I hear cold turkey is as good a way to quit as any.”

Sansa laughs while she spins towards him, her hands braced on the top of the fence next to his elbow. “That was easy.”

“Blame it on your legs.”

“Ah, well…” Sansa looks down at them fondly, then she tilts her head back up to meet his always observant gaze. “You having fun?”

“Honestly?” Jon leans forward a bit more, encouraging Sansa to move closer as well (as if she’d needed the encouragement). “I only showed up to flirt with the head cheerleader, so my fun’s only just started.”

Sansa laughs, one of those straight-from-the-belly laughs that’s so rich and so genuine that it makes everyone who hears it laugh, too. She’s positively infectious, and Jon can feel himself overcome with the feel of her through as little as a laugh and the nudge of her knuckles against his elbow.

“Are you coming to Margaery’s party after?” she wants to know. “I mean, since you’ve missed out on so much fun so far, I feel rather obligated to make sure you get your fill before the night’s over.”

“Ah, that depends on whether or not that cute cheerleader will be there.”

“Oh, there will be loads of cute cheerleaders,” Sansa assures him.

“Loads?” Jon furrows his brow, feigning confusion and trying to bite back his smile so as to keep up the charade. “I thought you were the only cheerleader.”

“ _Oh_ , isn’t that the line of the century?” Sansa laughs again and somehow represses the urge to take his face in her hands and plant a big wet one on his mouth here and now. He’s certainly earned it and she certainly wants to. “I’m so impressed, you’ve left me speechless.”

Jon echoes her laugh—out of nerves or relief, he’s not sure (he never is when it comes to her and the stupid shit he does)—and says, “Good, because I think I sound like an idiot.”

“An irresistible idiot, though,” Sansa placates him while her eyes dip down to his exposed collarbone. Not that she’d like to run her tongue over it or anything, but she totally would.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Jon gives in and twists his fingers in the ends of her ponytail and he tugs her closer. “You know, if I’d known it was this easy to get you to hit on me, I wouldn’t have tried to stay—what is it, _aloof_? Yeah,” he decides with a firm nod. “I would’ve come to _all_ your practices, instead of just every other one.”

“Well I must admit, it was that added dash of mystery that really hooked me,” Sansa teases. She presses a fingertip into the middle of his clavicle, and his skin is so hot to the touch that it makes her own flame with an anticipation and a want she swears she can see in his eyes whenever he looks at her. Of course, she’s not that terribly self-indulgent that she would _imagine_ these things, which is how she knows that that really _is_ precisely what happens when he looks at her.

The announcer’s horn blasts through the dense heat, signaling five minutes until the game resumes. Jon figures five minutes will work just fine for now, so he slides his fingers out of Sansa’s hair and over the back of her neck and he says, “Hope you don’t mind if I kiss you, then.”

The stadium lights are bright enough to burn through closed eyelids, but her lip gloss is sticky and his breath catches when he tastes her, and Jon doesn’t mind anything else.

* * *

Jon isn’t entirely sure how he ends up locked in one of Margaery Tyrell’s hall closets with Sansa’s legs hitched around his waist and his mouth working purple spots on her neck, but he surely hadn’t _planned_ on it. But then again… Well, Sansa’s hips grind into his, lifting her body further up the wall so his mouth finds her cleavage next, so obviously he has to amend his last thought because, okay, maybe he’d planned on it a little.

He hadn’t had any idea how to actually carry out this plan, though—now, when her fingers tangle in his dark curls and she moans his name whenever he bucks into her hips like the overeager adolescent he is, he supposes he could have just asked her—but he’d downright refused to engage in an activity that may have helped him achieve his ends otherwise.   

“I’m not playing _spin the bottle_ ,” Jon had protested sardonically, just in case Sansa didn’t quite get how ridiculous it is. Which apparently she didn’t, since she’d been trying to convince him that it’s really not (when it really _is_ ). It had been an arduous game of “It’s not stupid, _you’re_ stupid,” until finally Sansa dropped the pretense because the whole point was to get him locked in a closet with her, anyway, and it’s not her fault he’s an idiot but she’ll clear it up for him if she has to.

“Alright, fine, _we’ll_ play, just the two of us.” Sansa had twirled her bottle in her hands—twice or maybe three times, Jon had been too intent on her eyes to be sure—and then pointed it at him. “Oh, look, I’ve won. You’d best take me into the nearest closet.”

Jon thinks he could live to be a hundred with Sansa by his side and not once would he get tired of her bossing him around like this. So naturally he’d shoved her into the nearest closet, locked her hands above her head, and kissed her so hard that they both lost their breaths in each other’s mouths.

So maybe Jon _is_ in fact entirely sure how he ended up locked in one of Margaery Tyrell’s hall closets with Sansa’s legs hitched around his waist. But it resembles some of his more, ah, questionably honorable dreams so much that for awhile he wonders if maybe he should pinch himself to make sure that this time it’s real.

But instead he says fuck it and moves his hand between their bodies to grasp at the spot between Sansa’s legs. No way he could imagine that as lovely and warm as it actually is. She arches into his hand and that’s usually about the time he wakes up, hot and frustrated that she’s not anywhere near him, so when he’s able to scramble his fingers up her skirt he knows for sure that there’s nothing to wake up from:

Sansa is real, this is real, and they’re locked in a closet while he bites her neck and his hand is between her thighs.

Not-so-muffled party noises blare through the crack of their closed closet door, but neither of them give a shit.

Jon’s mouth leaves her throat with a slight _pop_ so he can lift his head and look at her. He grits his teeth against the urge to tongue his way down the rest of her body, and grips the back of her thigh with his free hand, hitching her higher up against his hips and half-drowning in the moan that tumbles from between her lips.

“Is it too soon to tell you how much I fucking love you?” he wants to know, his voice low and hoarse from wanting and getting.

“No.” Sansa’s hands slide through and muss up his hair. Her nails dig into the back of his neck when his fingers twitch right before they get to her. “No, you can tell me whatever you’d like.”

“Good.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. His breath is hot and damp against her skin and it makes her sigh his name. “I’m going to take you to dinner tomorrow night. And then we’re going to the worst movie I can find so I can kiss you in the back row without worrying about anyone complaining about us.”

“Mmmm, I’ve never liked watching movies much, anyway,” Sansa remarks, her cheekiness diluted some when Jon’s fingers push under her knickers and she laughs that soft, breathy laugh that makes Jon’s thighs clench in what he thinks must be a defensive maneuver. Not that he minds, when Sansa’s limbs are tangled around him and she’s saying his name like some kind of litany that she’s wholly devoted to, the way he’s wholly devoted to her.

“I certainly wouldn’t complain about us.”

“Well thank god for that, then,” he says, and he covers her laughing mouth with his own.

* * *

Jon wouldn’t say that he flirts with his best friend’s sister—more like he pushes his girlfriend who just _happens_ to be his best friend’s sister up against every available surface so he can run his tongue over her, and he rubs circles with his thumb over the back of her hand whenever he holds it. And, okay, so maybe sometimes he’ll push his hand up her skirt. And _maybe_ , _occasionally_ , she’ll be laying in her bed and he’ll slide over her body and bury his face in the slope of her neck and his hand just happens to go up her shirt. It’s just… no big deal, right? Who cares?

And maybe he sucks on her earlobe and whispers that he loves her, but it’s not like he does it every _day_ (even though he does), so he really doesn’t know why Robb is always snorting in that half-amused, half-irritated way and punching Jon in the arm whenever he swipes playfully at Sansa’s ass or kisses her shoulder when she walks past.

Of course, Jon also wouldn’t necessarily say that he _doesn’t_ flirt with his best friend’s sister, either. Although, if you asked Jon, he’d say that “It’s called _being polite_.”

But, you know, it’s probably best to refrain from pointing this out to Robb.


End file.
